


Attention

by dulceflowercrowns



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Armie is a murderer, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Enthusiastic Consent, Jacob Elordi aka Nate Jacobs is just here as an added character, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Psychological Drama, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Violence, Timmy is 1 dimensional and shallow, no Euphoria plot commection tbh, promise i'm not psycho, she's a reasonable gem, sorry yall this is hella dark for what I usually do so forgive me, there's a cat named Edna, these characters are messed up and the only decent sane person is probably Saoirse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 23:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18538006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulceflowercrowns/pseuds/dulceflowercrowns
Summary: You have 1 new voicemail-"So you finally realized this isn't all fun and games anymore? Well, for you at least. I'm sorry... that was too soon. Insensitive, you're adjusting, I get that. But listen man, I've enjoyed making your acquaintance. It's really been a blast. You're a cool kid. It's just that now that you've come to your senses I can't get it off my mind how much fun we can have. I've been dying- dude- I've beenkillingfor a good fight. You saw. You know. It's been my fuckin wet dream, for years, actually, to play this game with you. Specifically. Like, properly. So I'll be the perfect gentleman and let you go first. It's your move. Just... I'm gonna need you to come out, come out wherever you are Timmy. I just wanna play..."To replay your message, press 1. To delete this message, press-Message deleted.***Timmy is a one-dimensional bottom feeder with a penchant for murder mysteries and Armie is the notorious killer he decided to idolize.Or the one where a boy bites off more than he can chew and a bad man spits him out. Idk, enjoy, I guess?





	Attention

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I don't think that murderer trope shit is hot. Like fictionally, go off, but irl that's just... no. People that hurt other people are not 'attractive'. Anyways, here's to rule bending in fics!**

It was raining. Hard. But isn't that how all the creepy stories start?

A guy gets sucked off, no homo, in the dim bathroom of his local bar instead of breaking down with a major sexuality crisis after realizing that shit, maybe men _are_ attractive when they were bigger and stronger and cut off your game with a ginger named Stella at the bar to order you a drink you didn't know you'd fuckin love, then follow up with a thigh-rub mid conversation that had nothing to do with becoming best bros and you almost subconsciously leaned up into. Yeah, a guy gets sucked off after all that in a gross bar bathroom at midnight, glitter-dusted eyelids twitching under curly bangs almost hilariously in sync with the Madonna remix pounding through the walls, skinny jeans snug round his rocking, shaking thighs as a foreign arm holds his Motley Crew sweater up from below, and its raining ominously.

Like hard as hell, in this steady downpour that came outta nowhere and makes no sign of ever going away. The boy is rubbing chipped blue fingernails through someone else's silky waves restlessly and he's remembering how he used to wanna go outside and dance when it rained like this, but a decade and some abrupt self discovery later and all he wanted was for the boy at his feet to never stop what he was doing with that tongue to his decidedly long-time true pleasure-deprived cock. He'd been missing the hell out and this lovely volunteer had been oh-so-kind as to offer his services and wow, what a good damn civilian.

Not all heroes wear capes.

Or, the exact words of said hookup before he'd gotten on his knees had been more like, _"I'd be honored to blow you the way your frat should've the second you joined them. My literal pleasure."_

And what was one supposed to do in response to that?  _Not_ have a sexuality crisis? _N_ _ot_ find out what kind of good time his traitorous frat opted him out of and head back home without any particular happening except getting hit on by a fuckin viking god of a dude that intimidated him?

No, no. Timothée Chalamet hesitated, said fuck it because he was horny and maybe it'd work, and obediently if not semi nervously unzipped his pants to stand there holding himself out of his briefs when asked to later. He stood there like a good boy, if not gulping a little, and let the guy look at him, admire him, smirk at how Timothée was avoiding eye contact and pretending the heavy hand that'd been sneakily grazing his lower back for the past hour of small talk wasn't responsible for how uncomfortably erect his cock was and this current exhibition wasn't why he was already leaky and shivering untouched... because he still had his fuckin pride at least.

Timothée's cell goes off and he wants to ignore it- he really does, because he's in the middle of discovering he likes guys here- shiton more than girls maybe (at least a shiton more than the type that only do missionary)- but that's the opening lines of La Cucaracha buzzing from his birthday gifted fuckboy fanny pack if he's not mistaken (and it's very possible that he might be, 2 shots and an angel face in... shit if he even knows what day it is) so that means Saoirse is calling. The sweet pink haired woodland sprite, bless her, set the ring tone herself.

Now this Saoirse is a smart student, a sweetheart, and a really good friend/roommate, but she doesn't call on Saturdays between the hours of 8PM and Sunday no matter what because she knows those are sacred hours for her best buddy Timmy Tim. There's a no-cockblock system at play between him, the boy getting his dick blown by another boy for the first time, and her, the petite girl balled up with an orange cat in her apartment and burnt lasagna on the windowsill. Their no-call rule hasn't been broken in the past 3 years, so why now?

"Fuck," I mumble, because I'm the one thrusting from against a grimey brick wall on the left side of a urinal, trying not to moan  _and_  laugh ( _Like A Prayer_ playing in the middle of a blowjob?) and I've been mentally talking in the third person like I popped more than one mollie all night.

And if Saoirse was calling, there had to be an emergency.

There better be an emergency if I was taking even a fraction of my attention away from the gorgeous 6 foot sophomore (enthusiastic philosophy major, was it?) that'd bought me the angel face and called me pretty.

New York better be up in flames or something and every last Avenger better have already tried and failed to save it. I said as much into my phone by way of greeting when I finally managed to hit answer, stifling a particularly shrill sound my good friend was licking out of me.

"Where are you?" Saoirse pressed, all business and buzzkill.

Jeez.

"I'm... nngh. I'm at, uh, Je T'aime," was my drunken, definitely annoyed answer.

Because Saoirse knew that already. Our weekends were ritualistic by now.

We spend Saturday mornings watching How I Met Your Mother. We walk down the block to buy gyros suspiciously on the nose with the cute Forever 21 cashier's lunch break that Saoirse thinks I don't know she's crushing on (and rightly so, she's adorable). Saoirse sketches on the fire escape if the weather allows it around the same time I start anxiety cleaning her apartment. We take Edna (our shared English Fold) for a walk, smoke and rate pedestrians in Gramercy Park in between family drama talk, and then I see my two favorite gals to bed before changing and heading to the rusty, scarlet confines of Je T'aime for my weekend fix.

Je T'aime, the bar that thinks waitresses in fishnets and corsets and escargot-flavored fries makes them French, and the only bar for miles that doesn't mind double-washing glasses and cutlery for my germaphobic needs... though that may have something to do with my cozy relationship with Laurel the owner.

I get the cliche escargot fries, a few pints or a fruity drink, bust some moves on the dancefloor, and go home with a starry eyed girl before I disappear at sunrise because I usually can't be bothered to do more.

Again, Saoirse knew all this.

A muffled pop and the sudden lack of heat enveloping my dick reminds me that maybe this wasn't completely my normal weekend routine. A chuckle draws my attention from my cell, down, down, down to a smug, sultry, cheesy grin and a pair of brown eyes.

Fuck, he was hot. Certain guys were hot. Why hadn't I really allowed myself to think that before?

Tonight's stunner was our newest frat member and he had lashes for days and a tongue of gold that spoke like silver and was _pierced_. He- damn, what was this demigod's name again?- was pumping me with a strong slack fist in tease and I was too blissed out to be ashamed of how close I was when he'd only been at it for less than a minute.

It was almost insane how long I'd went without knowing what it felt like to be touched by another dude before. The heat swirling in my stomach was insane. It was all so insane.

But there was  _something_ here, something nice, because the two of us only met on campus a week ago and on the dance floor an hour ago and my neck was already riddled with thumb prints and hickeys, brain already imprinting the image of his tan skin catching the bathroom's cheap Victorian lights where my body didn't shroud him in shadow. We were sweaty and breathless and it was easy. It'd been easy since he approached me at the bar and casually stole the show of the girls I was chatting up. Easy to let him order me an angel face, ask innocent questions about the next campus rave and how I did on my last midterm while pulling me closer with a foot he wouldn't move from my stool rung. So much easier than I ever thought it could be to allow so much, almost to the point that I wondered how it hadn't happened sooner.

I remember talking cheekily about politics, a satirical ice breaker to get the ball rolling because  _something_ in me wanted him to keep paying attention, and then during manly football talk his hand trailed from his glass to the back of my chair, then my hip, and finally down to rest heavy on my upper thigh. We were shit talking each other's favorite players when he started gripping my thigh and rubbing it while I strained to feign nonchalance. He drank with his free hand because the other was locked in place, thumb pressing down as close as he dared over my hardening tent, always watching carefully, rubbing slow intentional circles as we chatted while my eyes- blown wide with apprehension- tracked the way his tongue wet his lips.

He laughed like he knew something before his face was so close his mouth was caressing mine, and then that same silver tongue found the insides of my mouth and lapped up a pathetic whimper. 

I was hot all over, clay in his hands, confused as all hell because this was definitely new. I wasn't sober enough and was definitely distracted enough to not freak out about how much more responsive my body was to strong hands and abs than the boobs and cunt of a fit chick like Laurel.

He backed me into the bar top and didn't let me up for air until I'd whimpered some more with pleasure, looking quite proud of both my reaction and the fact that I almost didn't notice the girls I'd been flirting with finally walking away.

Then he got us to the bathrooms and I learned what having stubble brush the lowest part of your belly felt like and nearly came right then. I was a changed person, rutting into an NYU sophmore's warm mouth. I'd seen the light with nails digging into my hips and spine yanking me forward so I could go deeper, wanting to know how much I or even he could take, and was already dreaming of round 2.

Simple. Effective. Fast. No crisis, just acceptance of what made me feel good because it felt _so_ good. Amazing, actually. Like I'd unlocked a new level of myself. Hoo-freakin-rah. Congrats to moi.

Now here we were, his mouth sliding over my tip and the hand I'd had in his wavy brown hair clenched instinctively. He had lean muscles and messily styled hair (before I got my hands through it and messed it up some more) and Polynesian style tattoos on his bicep, and he _felt so fuckin good around me_.

"You sound hot speaking French. Say something else," he panted, nosing my navel while he got some air.

His voice was a wrecked mess, much like what I was, and I found that I liked it that way. My fistful of hair clenched even tighter at the sound and I wanted to ask him to say something else with that voice, like my name, but didn't get the chance to.

I gasped and broke off into a groan when he took my cock in hand and mouth again without warning.

"Fuck man!"

I rushed to appease his earlier request as a reward.

"Uh, magnifique bouche. Merde! Shit, shit, shit, uhhh... ne vous arrêtez pas, s'il- ahhh!- vous plaît. S'il... s'il vous plaît!"

The fucker hummed around me in little vibrations like I wasn't trying to savor this revolutionary moment of self discovery. This was a delicious, mind shattering epiphany I was having with a stomach full of heat and candy liquor and fancy snail flavored fries. We were moving faster, sloppier, and I kept forgetting not to freakin impale his throat or some shit and he kept forcing me to anyway. If every time was like him...

My eyes popped open, lidded, my pants echoing in my ears, and I caught my own crazed look in the bathroom mirror- held it- couldn't help what seeing that and the back of his bobbing head did to me- I couldn't help the way a shudder dragged itself, almost lazily slow, from my core. My hips jerked forward hard, once, twice, and at the sound and feel of a particularly perfectly tight gag I was cumming down his throat, gasping profanities, and he knelt there and took it and let me ride it out.

"Vous donnez des fellations incroyables." I breathed, slowing until I stopped, rubbing sweat from my forehead with the heel of my shaking hand. I had to tug his head away when  _my_  head got too sensitive, hissing and fighting to stay upright.

Philosophy major stood up with a lick of his lips and theatrically dusted his knees. He smirked and tucked me back into my boxers, slid my hand away from his own buckle when I peered at him hesitantly, ready to fumble through figuring out how to return the favor. I tried again, and this time he interlocked my hand with his to hold it away.

"Hey!"

He snorted at my confused expression.

"I'm ashamed to admit it, but whatever the hell you were just mumbling in French finished me."

I stopped struggling to free my hand, alert. "You mean..."

"Yeah."

I cocked a brow, glancing down at his pants. A part of me wanted to unzip and see that spectacular feat of jizzing untouched myself.

Now that was kinda hot.

"Wanna grab another drink at mine?" he offered, tying his hair back up, and I was nodding too quickly to not seem eager but biting my lip too much to not seem totally new and lost to this. I hoped somewhere between the bar and his bed I'd remember his name.

"Timmy!"

Well  _that_  wasn't it. I'd remember that. 

"Timmy, damnit! Are you listening or are you still fucking whilst on the phone with me?"

Oh. Right. Saoirse.

Shit.

I lifted my forgotten cell back to my ear and ruffled my curls in the bathroom mirror to look semi decent before we entered the club again. My crewneck was a bit rumpled where philosophy kid's hands had been and his lips were bright and puffy where _I'd_  been, but we didn't look too conspicuous. 

Then again, did I really care?

No, I decided when I was guided forward with a hand, nudging me out the door quickly. I did not give a single shit.

"Sorry Sersh, what's up?"

"Timmy, I need you to come home tonight."

My brows furrowed and I plugged one ear to hear her better over the base humming through Je T'aime, snaking around dancers and waitresses and people who didn't realize I was already with someone until that someone grabbed me from behind to waddle us out penguin style and made my pulse stutter.

"Huh?! Why? Is everything okay?"

"There's this warning on t.v about a wanted criminal in the area. They're saying he's escaped from prison. He's dangerous and if he's caught he'll be getting life for sure so they say he's desperate too."

The hands on my hips slid up my sides until philosophy kid's arms were draped casually over my shoulders, working as a way to part bodies to get me out more easily through the sweaty crowds.

"Just lock the doors and stay inside! The cops will have him in no time!" I shouted into the receiver, trying my best to sound comforting despite feeling a little annoyed. This is why she wasn't allowed to watch television past 8.

"I'm not worried about me, idiot! I'm worried about you. You should come home."

I didn't need her mother henning me as adorable as it was any other time. My night's escapade- seriously, what was his damn name again?- and I made it outside to fresh spring air that was immediately ruined by the cool downpour outside. I let buddy boy focus on getting us an Uber and pulled out a cigarette, cupping the butt of it to shield it from Manhattan's shit weather. Low line areas were definitely gonna flash flood so it was a good thing we lived 6 floors up and just restocked Edna's food- we didn't have to go outside for anything.

Crazy how at the start of the night I was sure I'd be ending it in some cute chick's bed, or even Laurel's if all else failed and her husband got her pissed enough to settle for fooling around with a boy half her age in the stock room again. Crazy how I was into guys, how I hadn't noticed the attention I paid to them before... crazier still that I was seemingly the bottom in all this when I was sure that that one online quiz I'd taken instead of studying for finals said I was a top.

" _Timmy._ Are you listening?"

"Sersh, hun, I'm a big boy!" I yelled over the rain. "I can handle myself! Except I met someone and I'd really like to let them handle me instead!"

My smirk came easily in response to the aformentioned guy winking back at me from the curb, turning to sidle my way. I shivered, my clothes already soaked through and heavy on my bones and a decent amount of nervous edge left under the false bravado .

"So yeah, I can't make it home tonight. I'll be f-"

I coughed when my next pull of nicotine was cut off by an insistent mouth on my neck. Fuck me.

Literally.

"Timmy?"

"Fine. I'll be fine. Okay?"

"I-" Saoirse sighed. "I'm just worried, Pony. The lady on the news said this Hammer guy is really dangerous. Like they were debating closing off the Gramercy area because that's the last place he was spotted and you know they can't afford to just close off areas on weekends unless its serious. He's bad, bad... and I know the odds of something happening is little to none-"

Suddenly my eyes flew open blinking out stinging rainwater and soaked curls, no longer in la la land. I striaghtened, nudging college kid away with no care for his slightly affronted look. My blood was pounding in my ears, cigarette between my teeth falling to the ground as I pressed my phone to my cheek with white knuckles.

"What did you say? Saoirse... what was that name again?"

"Uhm, Hammer? They said his name was something-Hammer. Armand, I think. Why?"

I couldn't breathe or focus. My knees felt awkward and unstable, like they couldn't remember how to keep me upright so they locked in panic. Like when I was getting the blowjob but with even more pleasure and fear.

_No. No fuckin way._

"Pony? Are you okay? You're scaring me a little..."

"Yeah," I reassured her quietly, if not dazed. The city was a blur around me and my brain was spinning.

"I'm okay. Its just..."

This time I couldn't disguise the awe in my voice, the way my lips curled up faintly, the way my heart thudded with excitement and my thoughts raced with possibilities. I was practically whispering now.

"He... he really got out?  _The_  Armand Hammer escaped and he's here?"

**Author's Note:**

> it literally started with mild smut I'm so sorry yall, I wanna say it gets better but this whole thing is about to be messed up morals and concepts and shallow thinking :/


End file.
